


Pace the Meadows With a Heavy Tread

by Lisztful



Category: Jeeves & Wooster, Jeeves - P. G. Wodehouse
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-19
Updated: 2010-12-19
Packaged: 2017-10-13 18:42:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/140464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lisztful/pseuds/Lisztful
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bertie has a rather rummy realization, but there's hardly time to consider it, what with all the dratted relations who've decided to invade the old Wooster homestead, not to mention Honoria Glossop.  Only Jeeves could possibly save this day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pace the Meadows With a Heavy Tread

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vomit_bunny](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vomit_bunny/gifts).



> Thanks to my beta, who was so kind and helpful, and listened to me for an extremely long time when I was nervous about writing this. I adore Jeeves and Wooster, and I've really enjoyed writing this. I hope you like it! The plot deviated a bit from your primary idea, but hopefully still kept to the sorts of plot points that you wanted. Happy holidays, vomit_bunny!
> 
> More notes and credit for quoted texts at the bottom!

It all started in the bath, as rummy things so often do. You see, some days, a chap realizes he's left the water run cold and shall have to step out into a drafty room. Other times he, now, not me you understand, but some other chap who's a bit numb about the fingers, might drop his bally good novel in the water and have to have his valet wring it out. But my realization, I'm sure you'll agree, was rather more unexpected indeed.

It was a rubbish sort of day in the middle of December, that kind of gloomy chill morrow in which countless maidens no doubt felt compelled to wander out into the marshes and bemoan their fates to the cold grey heavens There was no snow, only awful rain tapping endlessly on, almost enough to make a chap go mad and start reciting poetry with a barmy look in the old widened eye. I say almost because yours truly felt no such desire, for Jeeves had already indeed-sirred me right into the bath, full up with suds and rosewater and a cup of chocolate within arm's reach.

And so I whiled away that fateful morning in a heap of bubbles, humming cheerfully away at the new ditty Barmy had played for me last night at the Drones' club. Jeeves was tut-tutting about in the background, dusting and polishing and whatever other magical things he liked to do when Wooster the last wasn't looking.

“I say, Jeeves,” I said, after I'd grown tired of my novel. “Rather a gloomy day, isn't it? Makes one want to curl up by the old hearth fire and not get up until spring.”

“Yes, sir,” Jeeves said solicitously, and I couldn't see him but the old Wooster brain just knew that the Jeevesian countenance was twisting up like bacon on a hot griddle at the very thought.

“Do you ever curl up anywhere?” I asked drowsily. “I can hardly imagine you huddling at all. Can you even so much as slouch?”

“I wouldn't think it polite to say, sir,” Jeeves said, and I thought, _Bertie, old chap, what the devil is that strange sensation in in the stomachy-chestish region? It feels a good bit like butterflies, or something else fluttery and unexpected._ I ruled out the most obvious solutions, for example indigestion and aunt-inspired terror, and after a few moments of careful deduction I was left with but one answer, and that was when my rummy situation began. Dash it all, I was in love with Jeeves.

Now, one doesn't often have life-changing whatsits in the bathtub, so one, well, I, wasn't exactly prepared for it. I reacted admirably, I'm sure all would agree, but there were admittedly some squawking noises and a not unreasonable quantity of splashed water, resulting in the bubbles landing right in the old ocular region. It felt something akin to finding out I was engaged to Lady Florence Craye again, except centered in the region of my poor, innocent eye. Naturally I bellowed, and then Jeeves was patting about with a flannel or somesuch, murmuring things that I'm sure would have been quite calming and even an enjoyable way to pass an afternoon if it weren't for the ruddy soap in my eye.

Well, to be quite concise, Jeeves muttered a bit more, patted about the Wooster countenance, and with judicious application of a pot of water, managed to rescue my visual whatsit. I was still convalescing, which is to say, blinking up at the ceiling and wondering what I'd done to be so bally wronged, when the doorbell rang.

“Excuse me, sir,” Jeeves said, rising like smoke out an open window and reaching for another cloth with which to dry his hands.

“Oh dash it all, Jeeves,” I said, now both wounded and displeased that he'd moved away. “The door is hardly ever good news, and almost always a bother. Perhaps we could have the bally thing removed, eh?”

“Indeed, sir,” Jeeves said, sounding unconvinced. “I shall answer the door.”

“Oh, blast the door!” I cried, but I was too late.

Oh, if only I'd known. I still awaken some nights, all a quiver with those horrid memories. If only I had put my foot down and spent the day in repose upon the hearth rug! My flat doesn't exactly _have_ a hearth, as it were, but I'm certain Jeeves could've put that magnificent brain to work and devised a solution to that problem. Still, I must press on, for things must become much bleaker before they can improve.

Er, I seem to have lost my place. Well, erm, ah yes. Blast the door, etc. etc., weeping and wailing and rending of garments and whatnot, and I was too late.

Well, I couldn't hear the average person from all the way in the bath, but Aunt Agatha was no ordinary mortal. Her voice boomed out in a frankly Wagnerian timbre, portending doom more surely than those old Sibyl fruits. I sank a little further into my bath.

“Mr. Wooster is indisposed, ma'am,” Jeeves said, in that rather lovely way of his. He knew just how to talk to aunts, unlike some of us.

“Lying abed at this hour?” Aunt Agatha cried, and with a noise like a stampede of cattle, began to make her way toward my bedroom.

Jeeves coughed, and though I couldn't hear him moving, I suspected he had placed himself between myself and said stampede, my bally knight in shining, well, morning coat. “Mr. Wooster has taken ill, ma'am,” I heard him say. “I should not like for you to put yourself in danger of contracting it. He is red about the eye, and I fear it may be contagious.”

“Hmph,” hmphed Aunt Agatha. “I cannot imagine succumbing to something so pedestrian as an infection of the eye. You may make the little toad presentable, but then you will bring him to me.”

“Yes ma'am,” Jeeves said, and that was bally well that. I attempted a bit of huddling and bemoaning, but Jeeves would have none of it. He got me into my clothes before you could say, well, something that doesn't take long at all to say, for example porridge, or how's your old uncle, or, well, something swift. It was only when we came to the matter of my tie that things came to a head. Or, well, they came to a tie, really.

It was the spiffingist tie I'd ever seen, and I consider myself somewhat of an expert on the subject. The color was vivid, like deep water beneath which mermaids and little gold fish would no doubt have liked to flutter. It was the sort of color that would have inspired Madeline Bassett to croon, and I realized that I ought to avoid wearing it in front of her, just in case. However for keeping up the old spirits against an aunt, I knew it would be absolutely perfect.

Jeeves did not agree. The moment I procured the garment from its box, I saw Jeeves' jaw set in a manner like unto a bull baiting dog, and come to think of it, he looked no less violent. His brow darkened, and his eyes flicked briefly upward, as though he was asking for the counsel of some higher authority.

“Oh _dear_ , sir, I am dreadfully sorry,” he said, not sounding sorry at all. “I'm afraid that--” he coughed delicately. “That _item_ does not match the ensemble I have already laid out. I will take the liberty of returning it to your wardrobe for a better day.”

“See here now, Jeeves,” I said, and I admit I came close to tutting. “I will not have you questioning my sartorial what-have-you. I have it on the greatest authority that this tie is all the rage in Cannes. Even the butlers wear them like this.”

“I have cause to doubt that, sir,” Jeeves said, and his tone had gone cold as ice. “I must counsel you against that item, however if you are quite decided I will return to Mrs. Gregson to pour the tea.”

“Yes, yes,” I said, still annoyed. “I _am_ decided.”

“Very well, sir,” Jeeves said, and swept out of the room.

“Very well _indeed_ , I said, still rankled, and did up my own bally tie.

I found myself across from Aunt Agatha after the customary what ho's, still rubbing at my recently besoaped eye. Quick thinking as ever on Jeeves' part there with the infection talk, I really did look the part.

“Stop that at once,” Aunt Agatha snapped at me for the third time, but then added, “I require a service.”

“Well I hardly think,” I began, thinking fast. “Well, that is to say, when one is, er, ill-ish and whatnot-”

“Quiet,” the Auntly gorgon interrupted. “I must step into town for the afternoon, and young Cyril Bassington-Bassington cannot be left to his own devices. A small troupe of minstrels are spending the week at the Edelthorpe estate, and I fear Cyril will attempt to scale the battlements and join them.

“Oh, can't have that,” I said, chuckling weakly. “Old Blotty Edelthorpe's excitable even when he's not, well, blotty. He'd think Cyril was a marauder, and one could only hope his aim would continue to be middling at best.”

“It would serve Cyril right, chasing after those theatrical sorts,” Aunt Agatha sniffed. “Still, there is always the chance that he would make it into the hall unimpeded. No, it's settled. You must look after Cyril until I return.” She stood, ignoring my suddenly fishlike countenance. “Jeeves, my coat.”

Jeeves materialized, holding an awful furry sort of thing with several beady eyes and a couple of wilty paws and draping it over the old A.’s shoulders. I blinked, hoping against hope that this entire encounter had been nothing but a soap-in-eye inspired mirage. Alas.

“Expect Cyril within the hour,” Aunt Agatha intoned, adding, “And take off that repulsive tie, you twit.” With that, she swept out the dratted door.

Well, it wasn't the nicest thing I'd ever heard, but at the very least I wasn't awaiting any sort of connubial thingy or having to break into any estates. I figured I could satisfy Cyril with a few rounds of bridge and a little show of the new scores I'd just received in the post, a collection of verses which promised to tickle the keys and the old voice box. If that didn't work, I'd never seen a soul refuse to bend before a tea tray ala Jeeves, all dripping with crumpets and scones and muffins and whatnot. With this in mind, I decided that woe was not me just yet, and put it from my mind.

I should say, just to be quite clear, that my ablutionary realization of the morn had not been forgotten. Quite the contrary, for though his frosty demeanor persisted thanks to the tie, Jeeves still fluttered about making my day as comfortable as always. I didn’t like him to be angry with me, yet there was something rather charming about his interests in my sartorial well being, misguided as he was, and that was the only thing about which I could wrap the mind. Funny phrase, that, as though the mind is some sort of handkerchief. I always thought of it more like a Yorkshire Pudding, all twisted up and sometimes a bit goopy. Anyhow, Jeeves fluttered and frosted, and I watched, and all the while, I thought, _It's the bally balliest of things, but I'm absolutely potty about him!_ As one might imagine, were one inclined to imagining things in general, and Woosterian tales in particular, it was rather difficult to realize that I loved Jeeves. You see, I had always suspected I was destined for a long life of bachelordom, maybe a couple of kids around my knees if Gussie or Tuppy or someone saw fit to reproduce (although come to think of it, perish the thought. Tuppy the younger would probably gnaw on the very chair upon which I sat, and Gussie II would very likely be a newt). No, with the exception of a few rather unpleasant moments upon which one doesn’t like to dwell, this fellow looked upon the prospect of marriage with nothing more than cold, horrible dread.

Still, it isn't exactly the done thing, succumbing to the old amour thanks to one's manservant, and even were it so, there were those silly laws to think of, not to mention that Jeeves himself would no doubt have to participate in any sort of romantic endeavors, which would require some sort of willingness on his own part. It seemed a better idea to perish the thought entirely, but that was easier to spake than partake. Er, something like that. Jeeves would no doubt have a plum quotation to sum up the narratorial threads at work here, but alas, my brain is not so large.

Before too long, the door chimed again. “That’ll be Cyril,” I said, and Jeeves nodded gravely, crossing the room. I got up too, feeling it would be better to deal with Cyril if I had a little nip of something first.

Jeeves cleared his throat from behind me. “Ms. Myrtle Chuffnell and Mr. Seabury Chuffnell,” he said carefully, and I nearly dropped my drink.

“Oh, good heavens!” I said, spinning about. “What ho, Myrtle? What ho, Seabury?”

They stepped into the flat without so much as a _by your leave_. Myrtle simpered simperingly at me; Seabury just glared.

“Oh hello, Bertie,” Myrtle said, as though I was the one who’d just shown up at her digs uninvited. “So lovely to see you.”

“Ah yes,” I said, thinking fast. “Perfectly lovely to see the both of you. Er, what brings you to this neck of the woods, eh?”

“Oh, dear Bertie,” Myrtle said, her tone akin to sticky toffee. “I’m on my way to a convention. The topic is new techniques in decoupage, and I do dabble in the papering arts.”

“Ah,” I said, wondering what in the bally world that was. “Well, good on you, then, Myrtle. And is young Seabury also a, er, lover of whatsit?”

“Oh no,” Myrtle said, tittering into her handkerchief. To my great dismay it appeared to be embroidered with a veritable array of daisies. “Seabury doesn’t go in for that at all. That’s why I thought he could stay with you for the afternoon.”

She seemed unaware of my sudden, dumbstruck expression. “You two do get on so well, and I know he’ll have a delightful time here. Perhaps you can play some of your little songs for him? Mr. Wooster’s a wonderful singer, Seabury.”

“I want a caramel,” Seabury uttered, in that awful tone that made me long to push him off the nearest bridge or hillside. “Give me a caramel.”

“Well, I’m afraid I haven’t got any,” I said. “And I’m sorry, but it’s really a great deal to ask just like that. I’ve got a house guest coming already.”

“Oh, _wonderful_ ,” Myrtle said. “Seabury shall have a little friend to play with! I shall return for him at a quarter past seven, so you ought to have time for a nice dinner together. Ta!”

I looked frantically around for Jeeves, hoping for a hasty reparation, but he was mysteriously absent from the room. I glanced down at my tie, cursing the both of us. By this time Myrtle had gone, and Seabury stomped into the room, tramping on my foot before flopping down onto the divan. “I _want_ a caramel.” He said. “And a mince pie.”

“Er,” I said. “That is to say, well.” I gave it a really valiant try before giving in. “I’ll just go and see if Jeeves has got any.”

I slipped into the kitchen, shutting the door firmly behind me. “The little blighter’s asking for sweets and mince pies, Jeeves,” I said, slumping back against the counter. Jeeves glanced up from ironing my cuffs, his brow furrowed.

“I shall see to it directly, sir,” he said, and I nodded.

“If we can just keep him eating, perhaps he won’t have time to talk,” I said hopefully. Jeeves almost smiled, which warmed the Wooster spirits somewhat.

“Ah well, Jeeves,” I said, preparing myself to make amends for the incident of the tie, but at that moment the doorbell rang again.

This time it really was Cyril, and if Jeeves didn’t approve of my wardrobe, I rather think Cyril’s was enough to put him in danger of losing his sanity altogether. His tie wasn’t a tie at all, but some sort of paisley rubbish with tassels and a bit of gold thread, and I’d never seen a waistcoat that hugged the form quite so closely. “Oh, hullo Cyril,” I said. “Or should I say, what ho.”

“What ho, Bertie,” Cyril said, sinking into a chair with a sigh. “Isn’t the world dreary? The world is awfully dreary.”

“Ah, stiff upper lip, and all that,” I said, in a manner that I hoped was comforting.

“You look a sight,” Seabury said, through a bite of mince pie. “That thing round your neck looks like a bell-pull.”

“Well, I do say,” Cyril did say, sounding affronted. “Of all the bloody things to say-”

“Yes, well,” I said hastily, fearing imminent bloodshed. “I’ll just go see if Jeeves has got any more foodstuffs, what?”

“My house has _much_ better mince pies,” Seabury called after me. “See if he’s got any biscuits.”

“And some tea,” Cyril added. “I should like tea, Bertie. And a couple of crumpets, of course.”

Well, the Woosters are of good and ancient stock, and no doubt the old lineage contains more than one sturdy fighter. However in this situation, I’m ashamed to say that I slumped down against the wall behind the ironing board, sipping despondently at a brandy and soda and bemoaning my fate to somewhere around the vicinity of a sturdy Jeevesian knee. Jeeves said very little except _indeed sir_ , however I suspected his current interests in vigorous ironing were not unrelated to the presence of the two young rotters currently lounging on all of my furniture at once.

“They want more food, Jeeves,” I said presently. “And I suppose I’d better go make sure they’ve not tried to kill each other yet. Rescue me soon, if you would.”

“Yes, sir,” Jeeves said, sounding as close to reluctant as he ever did. “I shall bring the tea directly.”

It didn’t feel as though I’d been gone for long, but when I returned things had rather gone downhill. Cyril must have found his way into my chiffirobe, for he was wearing not only my white mess jacket but a whole collection of other garments normally found on the Wooster person, ties and braces and bally shirtsleeves, all without so much as a by-your-leave. Seabury had finished off the remains of my breakfast toast and was rifling through my sheet music, as though there might be a few more morsels hidden away. I should think that if that small pestilence ever has the misfortune to enter a room containing Tuppy Glossop, the whole of Britain should have to declare a famine.

“I want a shilling,” Seabury said, wiping jammy hands all over my brand new copy of "I Like To Do Things For You." A topping shame, that, although Oofy Prosser had assured me I’d never get my head around the lyrics.

“Now, now,” I said. “Whatever do you need a shilling for?”

“If you don’t give me a shilling--” Seabury began menacingly, but Cyril cut in.

“Now Seabury,” he said, “Shouldn’t you like to read my new play with me? Bertie tells me you’re a great admirer of the theatrical arts.”

“Is it a stupid play?” Seabury asked mulishly. “I reckon it’s awfully stupid.”

Cyril drew sharply up from his position of repose. “It is a _great_ work of art, young Seabury. I daresay it’ll make you shed a tear, before the day is out.”

“We’ll see about that,” Seabury said. “But I want more cakes first. And muffins, too.”

“Yes, yes,” I said wearily. “More food directly.”

At that moment, blast it all, the doorbell chimed yet again. Jeeves appeared from the kitchen, carefully returning my beleaguered gaze. I couldn’t bear to look, to tell the truth. What if it was Aunt Dahlia, wanting something purloined? Or Claude and Eustace with a couple of stray cattle for me to watch? What if it was, perish the thought, _Madeline Bassett_?

“Honoria Glossop, Sir,” Jeeves said, and I must admit, I could not entirely prevent the look of general dismay that I no doubt exemplified. Another horrid engagement seemed just the done thing to finish off this rotter of a day.

“Oh, _Bertie_ ,” Honoria said, crossing the room with her particularly, er, _powerful_ stride and striking a rather enthusiastic slap across my somewhat unappreciative shoulder. Still, one doesn’t like to be uncouth. Stiff upper lip, or rather shoulder, and all that.

“Oh, what ho, Honoria?” I said. “Everything all right on the future connubial bliss front?”

“Oh, la, Bertie, you do go on so,” Honoria said, letting out one of her foghorn-like laughs. I swear, she’s the closest human thing I’ve ever seen to a steamboat. “No, I’ve a problem for Jeeves.” She glanced over at Cyril and Seabury, pausing as their dialogue wafted over to our ears.

“Oh _dear_ ,” Cyril read, rolling his eyes up in his head in an expression of great dolorosity. “I am afraid I shall not marry you, lady Catherine Anne Sinclair du’Boise, for I have not the means. My heart does ache, ever so.”

“Oh Lord Howard An-glee-see,” Seabury read out slowly, looking rather put out. “I shall die of loving you before the night is out. This play is rubbish!”

“Now see here-” Cyril began furiously.

“Never mind that,” Honoria cut in imperiously. I had no doubt that she might one day reach auntly proportions not so removed from those of Aunt Agatha. “Where is Jeeves?”

Jeeves entered the room again, coughing delicately in his just-so way. “Here, madame. I understand there is a problem of a somewhat delicate nature?”

“Ooh, so fancy, Jeeves,” Honoria said. I inched away, suspecting an impending arm-slap. “Yes, I’ve a little situation and I’d love for you to resolve it. Should be short work for you, Jeeves.”

“You flatter me unjustly, madame,” Jeeves said. “Pray, continue.”

“I’ve joined a rugby team,” Honoria said. “All ladies, you know, and just on the weekends. There’s nothing so wrong about it, but I just know mummy and papa would never approve. I’ve got to have some sort of cover that will see me out of the house for it.”

“Ah, yes,” Jeeves said. “I shall have to ruminate.” He glanced over at Cyril and Seabury who had begun swatting at each other. “Perhaps Mr. Wooster would like to invite you to stay for tea?”

“Er, yes,” I said, hoping the wide-eyed look of dismay I shot at Jeeves was clear enough. “But of course, old fruit. Do stay for a sip and a nibble.”

“What _did_ they teach you at university, Bertie?” Honoria asked, chuckling. “Yes, I will have some tea.”

“In but a moment,” Jeeves said, and vanished back into the kitchen.

“Well, I don’t see why I shouldn’t have been tasked with this little problem,” I said, feeling a little put out and no mistaking it. “It seems perfectly simple. Why, with a good disguise and a bit of olio d’oleva--”

“Don’t be so foolish,” Honoria said. “You can’t even talk properly, how could _you_ solve a problem?”

Well that was bally well that. It was not enough to be invaded by all the obscure relations one never again wanted to clap one’s eyes on, and to make a day of it by being threatened with extortion and famine and engagement. Now one had to defend one’s old intellectual honour.

“Well, I do say,” I did say. “I--” I considered for a moment, but could think of no appropriate reply that could fall safely upon the ears of a lady and two youngish nincompoops. “I shall return directly.”

And with that, I slunk back into the kitchen.

“It hardly seems fair, Jeeves,” I said in tones of great lamentation, picking sadly at a bit of lemon tart I had liberated from the tea tray. “I open up my home to these people, and what do they do? Insult every part of the Wooster person, that’s what. Do you know, that little blighter Seabury told me my tie made me look jaundiced? What does that even mean?”

Jeeves cleared his throat. “I believe young Mister Chuffnell was referring to the characteristic colour of yellow attributed to hyperbilirubinemia, generally present--”

“Yes, yes,” I cut in impatiently. “Never mind the hyper-- hyper-- whatsit. Anyway Cyril has creased my green golfing shirt beyond repair!”

“Oh _dear_ , Jeeves said, rolling his eyes heavenward in a rather fitting expression of grief. “And it was so well loved, by,” he coughed. “Select members of the maintenance profession.”

“Now see here,” I began, then paused. “Say, it’s gone awfully quiet in there. Do you think we had better investigate?”

“It would seem a judicious application of our time,” Jeeves said. “If you would be so kind as to lead the way, I will follow with the tea tray.”

“Oh righto,” I said, and gallantly held the door open that Jeeves might follow in my wake.

The scene to which we returned was peaceful, rather troublingly so. Seabury was seated across the length of the sofa, crunching biscuit crumbs all over the Parisian embroidery. Honoria was seated across from him, seemingly lost in a reverie. No doubt it consisted of knocking into people at a very high velocity and then chortling little somethings about their fragility.

I coughed, hoping for a very rational explanation. “Er, what ho again, Glossops and Chuffnells. Although there’s really only one of each of you, I suppose. Now, where might old Cyril have gotten off to, I wonder?”

Seabury looked up at me as though speaking was a very great imposition. “He’s left, of course. Any intelligent bloke could see that.”

“Yes well,” I said, ignoring the insult to the Woosterian honour for the time being. “And where exactly might he have left _for_?”

“Well he didn’t say, did he?” Seabury replied snottily. “He wouldn’t give me a shilling, either. He took his stupid play with him. I’m glad, I would sooner have sat on it than read any more.”

“Indeed,” I said distractedly, because really, who could argue with that?

“And you? Did you acquire any more pertinent details?” said I to the lady, who had now found an old pile of _Milady’s Boudoir_ back-issues that I’d shoved under the carpet, that they might be easily strewn about when involved parties came to visit. She paged through with an expression of disgust, not bothering to look up at the querying party, which is to say, myself.

“Oh, stuff the little monster,” Honoria said. “It’s no wonder you speak so foolishly, reading this rubbish. I’ve no idea what Cyril was on about, either. Something about checkers.”

“I say,” I said. “Why should he need to leave in order to play checkers? I’ve a perfectly serviceable set. Perhaps he left in search of an opponent or somesuch.”

Jeeves cleared his throat carefully. I turned, more than usually pleased to see that Jeeves had decided to help. Evidently the tie wasn’t so terrible after all. Of course, it could just mean the situation was unusually dire, but one doesn’t like to dwell on such rummy ideas.

“Yes?” I said, “Have you any particularly brilliant conclusions, Jeeves?” I admit, I liked the little tinge of colour that passed over Jeeves’ noble countenance in reaction to my compliments. I supposed people told him he was absolutely corking more often than he could bear, but it seemed he liked when it came from me. I filed that away in the old mind-bank, much like that old Sherlock Holmes chappie. Although come to think of it, I suppose Jeeves would be Holmes, and I should have to be, well, Watson. Never fancied myself much of a doctor, although I do put the old pen to paper every now and again, as you are no doubt aware, as you are reading the very words I’ve put down in just such a way. Oh dear, I seem to have lost my place again. Let’s see.

Ah Yes! Jeeves replied, looking just the slightest bit pleased at the Woosterian remarks. “Sir, I suspect Mr. Bassington-Bassington was not referring to the game used to entertain members of the younger generations.”

“Doesn’t seem very likely,” I replied. “But you seem certain.”

“Indeed I am, Sir,” Jeeves said. “If you would care to accompany me, I shall attempt to elucidate. I do not think Cyril ought to be left to his devices for very much longer.”

“Very well,” I replied, “But--” I leaned in, not that I ought to have worried overmuch. Seabury and Honoria were rather too occupied with themselves to listen in. Still, one can’t be too careful, and all that. “But they’ll eat the bally foundations if we leave them alone here. And that’s if Seabury doesn’t attack Honoria out of sheer whatsitness.” This was relayed via a whisper, delivered pleasantly close to the also very pleasant ear of Jeeves.

Jeeves nodded carefully, inclining that noble brow just slightly closer to my own. I admit, I may have flushed a manly pinkish shade. “Sir, I believe that all will be well. Now, if you’ll accompany me. We shall only need to take a short walk.”

I nodded. “Certainly, Jeeves. Certainly.” I plopped my hat on the old Wooster bean, let Jeeves help me into my coat, and away we went.

“Sir,” Jeeves said, once we were safely out of doors (and good riddance, clearly, as they never brought anything but trouble), “There is an establishment not far from this street that goes by the moniker, ‘The Checker Club.’ I suspect that was the title overheard by Miss Glossop. As for the nature of this club,” he coughed, delicate as ever. “It caters to gentlemen who shall doubtless remain bachelors for the rest of their lives, at least as far as marital law is concerned.”

“Ah,” I said, “Like myself, you mean.”

We’d been walking along at a brisk enough clip, but at my words, Jeeves, in a very un-Jeevesian manner, seemed almost to trip. He caught himself in a jiff, but I already had my hand out to catch him, and there it stayed for what seemed much longer than a moment, until I got stuck somewhere between a chuckle and a cough and pulled a face at him. I wasn’t sure what face exactly, being rather flustered myself, but it seemed to do the trick, as it were. Jeeves straightened up and began to walk once more, and I followed.

“Sir,” Jeeves said carefully. “These gentlemen have rather a shared reason for their bachelordom. It is not solely a lack of regard for women, but a different sort of regard entirely.”

“Ah,” I said, considering this. “A club for inverts, you mean?”

Jeeves looked as though he was considering clapping a hand over my mouth, which might not have been entirely unwelcome in rather different circs. This was not the time, nor the place, nor probably the lifetime, if one was being completely cold and logically honest to oneself. “As such lifestyles are in violation of the English legal code,” Jeeves said, “Perhaps we might avoid such terminology. But yes, these establishments often appear in the livelier districts of large cities. I suspect Mr. Bassington-Bassington has found allies there, both of a theatrical nature and of a more personal variety.”

“I do say,” I replied. “Doesn’t seem quite safe for a young pothead like himself. Seems more than likely that he’ll run into a police officer and tell him all about the fun he’s had.”

“I must agree, sir,” Jeeves said. “Thus the need for an expedient extraction. If you would care to wait around the corner, I shall enter the establishment and remove Mr. Bassington-Bassington.”

“Oh nonsense,” I said. In truth, I was rather excited. When one realizes a long-standing love for one’s manservant, a club for inverts seems just the ticket, I must say. I was curious to see so many of nature's bachelors like myself gathered in one place, and besides, I felt a reckless desire to show Jeeves that I did not mind the society of inverts. Why, I didn’t feel any need to say so, he had no doubt read it in my acceptance of the nature of both Cyril and this Checker Club, being more than usually large of head and brain and all. However, I wanted him to see for sure, and let him draw his own conclusions from there. I trusted Jeeves with my very life, why not afford him the same trust over my good name?

We turned the corner, and there was the club. Jeeves gave me one last soupy sort of look, but let me lead the way.

Inside it was not so very unlike the Drones’ Club. There was the usual sort of stuff one found inside a club, chairs, tables, the old bar counter or lounge seat. There was an upright piano against one wall, and a fellow was drawing out of it a rather lovely little melody that made the old Wooster digits twitch. The room was not full, but there were a few men here and there, no different than Jeeves and myself.

“Over there, sir,” Jeeves said. “I believe Mr. Bassington-Bassington is seated at the far right table.”

“Right enough, Jeeves,” I said, and bounded for the table. “What ho, what ho,” I said, to Cyril and the couple of blokes he was seated with. My salutation was returned to me with tolerable enthusiasm.

“So terribly sorry,” I said, thinking about as quickly as I knew how. “But I’ve got to steal this chap away for just a moment.” The chaps nodded, not seeming greatly to mind. Cyril, on the other hand, looked as though he was about to explode.

“What’re _you_ doing here?” he said angrily in a sort of half-whisper.

Jeeves materialized at my side, clearing his throat. “Sir,” he said carefully. “I believe Mrs. Gregson means to return within the half-hour. If you were not present upon her return, I believe the results might be quite serious with regard to your continued welfare.”

“Oh, good heavens,” Cyril said, looking a bit longish about the facial region. “I suppose we had better go, then.”

“Just so, sir,” Jeeves said. “I have taken the liberty of settling your accounts. If you will accompany us?”

“Yes yes,” Cyril said. “Bye then, lads.” The lads nodded at him and waved a couple of lazy hands, and Cyril got up and followed us out the door.

“Well I do say,” Cyril said, when we’d nearly reached my apartment. “That was no place I ever expected to see _you_ Bertie.” His face fell, then, and he leaned in closer. “You won’t tell anyone, will you?” he asked me quietly.

“Of course not, old fruit,” I said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Perish the thought entirely. Banish it from your mind, never to return. Bertram Wooster is a man of his word.”

“Thanks, Bertie,” Cyril said, looking relieved. “And you, Jeeves?”

“The events of this afternoon are entirely forgotten,” Jeeves said.

Cyril looked back at me, and I nodded. “If you can trust me, you can trust Jeeves,” I said. “I certainly do.”

“Thank you, sir,” Jeeves said quietly, and when I glanced over, the Jeevesian mouth was adorned with a smile, small but unmistakable.

“Not at all, Jeeves,” I said, my countenance no doubt returning to that horrid shade of pink. “Not at all.”

Well, the air seemed to be growing rather thick, so it was a good job that we had reached my flat. We returned to my rooms in silence, a quiet which I broke upon remembering that I’d left Honoria and Seabury alone together. I expected nothing short of calamity, of which I swiftly informed my party. We were by now at my door, though, and there was nothing for it but to enter, upper lip strongly stiffened.

Well, love is a rummy, rummy thing. If this story has a moral, that’s it entirely. Love is unbelievably, intolerably rummy. It doesn’t listen to any sort of logic or reason at all, nor to concerns of manservantliness or soapy bathwater. However I still managed to be surprised to find that it didn’t listen to the loathesomeness of small toads, either. I suppose I ought to quit solilo-what-sing and just say what we saw, though, so what we saw was this: upon opening the door, we found Seabury, laying upon the floor with a dreamy look in his eye, gazing up at a rather disgruntled Honoria.

“But I _want_ you to marry me,” Seabury said. “I’ve got eleven whole shillings and Bertie owes me another. We would be very well off. My cousin Arnold hasn’t even got sixpence.”

“Leave _off_!” Honoria said, dropping a pile of _Milady’s Boudoirs_ rather near Young Seabury’s noggin. “I will not marry you, I do not like you! Please stop speaking, you pustulous creature.”

“Well,” I said to Jeeves. “Well, well, well.”

Jeeves nodded. “I believe Ms. Chuffnell has arrived to collect Master Chuffnell.”

“Oh, good show,” I said. “Young Seabury, thy mother approacheth.”

“You can’t talk,” Seabury said. “I talk loads better than you do. You can’t say any words right. Honoria is much cleverer than you.”

“That’s Miss Glossop to you,” I said, but I found I’d rather lost the desire to throttle the young thing, trial though he still was. There’s nothing quite like realizing your love is altogether unattainable, and if Seabury wanted to take bally Honoria off the market, I would have been the last person in the world to raise any sort of complaints.

“Ms. Chuffnell,” Jeeves intoned.

“Ah, what ho, Myrtle,” I said.

Myrtle tittered. “Oh, Bertie. Hello again! Ever so sorry, but we must dash. Seabury and I have to catch the train, you know. Ah well, perhaps you shall have a longer visit next time.”

“I don’t want to go,” Seabury said. “I want to stay with Honoria.”

Myrtle tittered again. “Oh, he is ever so sweet. He does treasure his friends so dearly.” She caught hold of Seabury’s ear. “Come along, darling. I’ve a nice box of sweets for you.” She dragged him through the door.

“I want them now,” Seabury shouted, but by that time they’d safely cleared the doorjamb and Jeeves was able to close the door against any further conversation.

“Well then, Jeeves,” I said, looking over at Honoria and Cyril. “We’ve still got two rather rummy sitches, haven’t we?’

“Indeed, sir,” Jeeves said, appearing by my side in his usual mysterious way. “I believe these problems may share an appealingly simple solution.”

“You’re so good, Jeeves,” Honoria said. “Go on, tell us.”

“Very well, madame,” Jeeves said. “I believe that your collective longing for the society of the city might be easily addressed. There is a certain playhouse not far from the rugby fields, which is quite respectable yet still home to a reasonable variety of theatrical personages. I believe Mr. Bassington-Bassington would find plenty of the society for which he longs in a rather safer setting, and a reasonable part in a production as well.”

Cyril brightened. “I say, that sounds absolutely topping.”

“Yes, sir,” Jeeves said, sounding faintly pleased. “Now, if Miss Glossop were to intimate to her parents that she was acting as mentor to to certain younger personages in need of her guidance, and if Cyril were to inform Mrs. Gregson that he was the recipient of the same such guidance, perhaps as an alternative to the theater, I believe the respective parties might be free to attend their gatherings as they please.”

“That’s perfect!” Honoria said, leaping up. “Cyril, I shall wait for Mrs. Gregson and speak to her directly. Lets go and plan, shall we?”

Cyril readily agreed, and in but a moment, my rooms were blessedly empty. I made my way to the side cabinet and poured a rather generous measure of brandy. “What a day, eh Jeeves?”

“Indeed, sir,” Jeeves said. “It has been--” he paused. “--Most illuminating.”

“Rather,” I said, returning to the couch with my drink. “I meant what I said, you know.”

“Sir?” he said, with that very particular quirk of the brow at which he is so proficient.

“At the club,” I said. “About trusting you. I do, completely.” My palms had begun to sweat rather unpleasantly, but something strange had taken hold of me, and I felt compelled to finish. “And about being, well, the sort of chappie who belonged in such a den, if you take my meaning, Jeeves. You shan’t hate me for it, I hope.”

I glanced up at him, suddenly nervous, but Jeeves looked anything but upset. “Sir,” he said. “I must implore you to refrain from sharing that insight with anyone else. It is potentially quite damaging information, and I should not like to see you the subject of blackmail.”

“Oh, quite, quite,” I said. “I thought you ought to know, though, and you’re not like anyone else. I rather hope you’ll stay here forever, you know, although I suppose some day you may get married and fly off to tend your own nest.”

“If I may speak freely,” Jeeves said, not so much waiting for a by-your-leave to continue, not that I wanted him to. “I consider my home to be at your side, wherever you choose to be. It is not a detail that I share with many individuals, but I must admit, my predilections are quite the same as your own. Indeed, I have held you in exceedingly high regard for quite some time.”

I hardly dared hope this meant what I would have liked it to. Such things were never so clear in those old poems with all the verses. It seemed we’d skipped the wailing and moaning our despairs to the heavens bit entirely. Perhaps I ought to have come up with something more romantic to say, but instead I replied, “Why Jeeves, I haven’t had any time at all for pacing the meadows with a heavy tread. It hardly seems right, for a person of your caliber.”

“I believe those methods of courtship suited to Mr. Fink-Nottle will be unnecessary in this case,” Jeeves said. I suspect ours is a regard that will not be so in danger of the ill effects of caprice.”

“True enough, Jeeves,” I said. “True enough.” I coughed. “Well, what does one do now, in these circs?”

“I believe,” Jeeves said, “A kiss would be an acceptable beginning to such a positive new endeavor.”

“How right you are, Jeeves,” I said, and how right he was.

 

\--The title of this work is a quote from "Right Ho, Jeeves!" "How Right You Are, Jeeves," is the alternate title of "Jeeves in the Offing." "I Like to Do Things For You" was a hit Bing Crosby number from the mid 1930's.

\--"I didn't think it polite to say, sir," is a riff on a quote by that other inimitable butler, Lane from _The Importance of Being Earnest_ , who upon being asked if he heard Algernon playing the piano, replies, "I didn't think it polite to listen, sir." Also, Lady Bracknell’s method of ringing a doorbell is described as Wagnerian in a similar manner to Bertie’s description of Aunt Agatha’s tone of voice.


End file.
